Subject
by Shizuku Tsukishima749
Summary: -Oliver Twist.- It was obvious, now more than ever, that Oliver had changed the Artful Dodger. Oneshot. Oliver/Dodger friendship.


_A/N: _Goodness, I'm on a roll today! Two stories in one day...and both for the same fandom! lol. This can be seen as an AU scene to the part in the 1997 made-for-TV movie (the one with Elijah Wood as the 'Artful Dodger') where Dodger is telling Fagin what happened with Oliver's disastrous first pick pocket, as well as a few scenes after, some of which I've tweaked to go my way.

There isn't any direct interaction between Oliver and Dodge here, but there is plenty of indirectness. lol. If Dodger seems OOC again, I apologize; once more, this is my interpretation of the characters as I saw them in the movie. Speaking of which, I see Oliver and Dodger having an _extremely _close relationship, so if this seems a little far-fetched, please bear with my heart, which is surely blowing this out of proportion.

_Disclaimer_: I do not own "Oliver Twist"/Oliver Twist. I believe that right belongs to Charles Dickens and 'The Wonderful World of Disney' (ABC?).

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**Subject**

Dodger was frantic, utterly and completely. He was high-strung and nervous and babbling and… Oh, blast it—Oliver was _gone_! Why _wouldn't _he panic?!

He was only half-listening to Fagin's furious ranting, only half-seeing the rampant fear behind the man's yells and overdramatic hand gestures. For the first time in his life, he was ignoring the man who had taken on the Fatherly role when he'd had none.

He felt his eyes growing hot as tears gathered in them, and he couldn't stop wringing his hands. Gulping many times, he offered something he hoped would be of help.

"Oliver won't peach!" At Fagin's disbelieving glare, he elaborated as best he could; when confronted with the threat of jail, even the youngest and best would squeal. "I _know_ him!" Again, Fagin was not convinced, and not entirely without good reason. "He _won't_…" This last sentence he said more to himself, for he believed it more than anything. Finally, after having the old man's eyes boring into him for what felt like the longest time, Fagin let loose a low growl of acknowledgment.

He saw where Dodger was coming from now, that was good. Still, he didn't quite understand. No one did.

He couldn't explain it either, frankly. The only thing he knew—and, indeed, it was the only thing—was that Oliver _meant_ something to him, more than anyone or anything else had.

This was _his_ fault; _his _and no one else's.

He was the one who had brought Oliver home that day, and he was the one who had begged Fagin to let him stay, lying through his teeth as he relayed that the child just needed a few more tips to be really good.

He was the one who had convinced Fagin he was ready for his first steal because he'd been desperate for Oliver's company, and he was the one who had insisted Oliver could do it when the boy knew—and he did, too, secretly—that he was still too innocent and honest for his own good.

He had known this would end badly, in some dark corner of his mind, but he had struggled to fight and deny its truth. He'd wanted Oliver with him, and that was the tail of it.

Now, he was without him completely, had been for several minutes on end, and he was literally splitting at the seams. Fagin could tell, too, and finally gave him some form of instruction.

"Find out where he is! Go on, off with you, you wretched whelp! Next time I ask you to watch over a boy, you _do it_!" The ending words were more of a shrill scream than the rest had been, but he was already out the door and descending the stairs four at once by the time its echo reached him.

* * *

Racing through the door with a bang and flying down the outside flight of steps, he tore down the dirty, crowded streets toward the courthouse, slowing down and catching his breath a few blocks away to create an illusion of mere intrigue.

He entered through the double doors, looked around, and quickly sat in the middle row on the right. There was a man seated there, someone of whom he knew, and he swallowed his rising insecurities. He would put on a façade of normalcy, no matter that he had shed such a trivial thing months ago.

He smirked as he sat down beside the man and tipped his hat with two fingers, making the softest rushing against his hair: this was their sign, the one to signal he had something he needed to know. The man—Holman, as he was called—just barely turned his ear toward Dodger, and the boy grinned. He would find Oliver soon enough.

Holman saw nothing as he stared, but said everything. Though he was blind, his whispers and ears were legendary for being the quietest and most acute in all of London, and this was completely true.

"What do you know about one Oliver Twist?" His own words were imperceptible, but the man heard. He also picked up on the underlying anxiousness and desperation in the question, but he waved it aside. It was always the same with these court visitors: asking for information about someone for whom they cared and never repaying him.

"There was a young-soundin' boy here of that name. He was bein' accused of stealin' a watch from a wealthy gent. He didn't have the watch, and the rich one's niece and the shopkeeper, who saw the whole thing, said he never stole anythin', which the man backed. The lad wouldn't peach on the one who stole it, though, and he was sentenced to six months in the institution," Dodger's breath caught, face went pale, and he thought he was going to be sick with guilt. The man's following words eased his fears. "The girl appealed to the judge, saying there was still time to save him if he could just stay in a good home with them. The judge agreed, and Twist was put in their custody. They went to—"

He listened to the house address and area, one on the outskirts of town where the rest of the well-off blokes lived, but he was too ecstatic to really pay attention.

He had viewed the protection of the boy as a very important, very precious task since day one, and by failing himself and Oliver when he'd let him get caught, he had felt sure his Sun had stopped shining for good.

Now, knowing that Oliver was safe, perhaps off to a place where he could get the life he deserved, his heart felt far lighter. The only thing weighing it down was the excruciating pain of loneliness at the thought that he would never see his closest friend again.

The teenager gleefully shook his head when he was sure the man was done—his head was turned away, back in its original position as he faced straight ahead once more. The blind one was sure the Artful Dodger's sensed, amazingly exuberant smile had to be the most grateful reaction he'd ever received from any of his recipients.

"Thank you, sir! Thank you so much!" A small, round something was pressed into his hand, and the young man, tearfully joyful voice and all, was gone.

The man fingered the thing in his hand slowly, feeling the furrows in the cool, soft-metal border. Through the carved grooves in the otherwise smooth, almost ivory-textured surface, he could make out a softly level background and a raised, equally as charming picture of a woman in the middle. He had seen these before, back when he'd had his sight; he'd loved them. Cameos, he remembered, were what they were called.

Looking toward the courthouse doors for the first time in hours, Holman slowly let a genuine beam overtake his lips: the first in many years. Perhaps there was hope for this forsaken world yet.

* * *

He bound up the stairs of his home, threw the door open when Fagin gave the green light, and slammed the door behind him. The smile on his face could have rivaled that of Oliver at his happiest, and his mouth was pouring out the words of his heart before he could assess the situation any further.

"Fagin—Fagin, I've found him! You won't believe—" He was talking too fast, stumbling over his words in his excitement, but the man in question somehow understood. A small grin came and went from his face, and Dodger was confused…until he saw Bill Sykes get up from the armchair beyond them and put forth a twisted expression.

Dodger wished he had never spoken.

"The boy is _what_?" Both men shuddered, equally afraid of the man's dangerously calm query. Yet, Dodger recovered far quicker than Fagin, and bravely—or stupidly—sized up the older man.

"He's with a family that'll take care of him, which is more than he could have ever gotten here. Frankly, I'm happy for him. Besides, you don't even know where he is." Hands on his hips and a finger pointed toward his life-long tormentor to prove his point, Dodger glowered at Sykes.

Suddenly, not even knowing what was happening, he found himself in the murdering cheater's face, kept there by an unrelenting fistful of collar and the gun held to his head. He could vaguely hear Fagin screaming for Sykes to let him go, but he was mentally gone.

If he died here, right now, he would never see his only friend and reason for _living _again. He would die instantly from a wound to the head, bleed until he had no blood left, and all over this floor.

This floor was the foundation of the place he'd called home for eight years, and it seemed it would be his grave as well. It didn't matter, though; he would rather die than betray Oliver any day.

Those burning eyes and cold gun barrel that used to intimidate him didn't anymore. He was empowered in the face of death, and he smirked yet again, maybe for the last time.

There was nothing more this man could do to him. Kill him, and Sykes would likely go to one of the best jails in all of England for the rest of his life; leave him alive, and Dodger would run, tell the coppers everything, and after it was all over, he would be reunited with Oliver.

Breath and a voice in his ear brought him from his fantasies of a better future to bleak reality.

"Tell me where he is…" Dodger's smirk heightened. Or what, chump? "Or he'll die."

Dodger was numb; frozen, eyes wide, breath stopped, and heart nearing the same. Oliver was being threatened because of him, because he had been desperate to see him and make sure he was safe at last.

He hated himself _so much_ for what he did next, but he didn't know what else to do. He wanted—no, _needed_—Oliver protected, and he knew what Sykes was capable of doing. He couldn't let the boy be subject to such scarring horrors, and if this was the sole way to ensure that…what more could he do?

He hung his head with a soundless sigh, and Sykes grinned in a truly wicked fashion.

_He hated this_.

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~No matter what he did after this moment, Dodger just prayed that Oliver knew he loved him.~

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_A/N: _Just to let you know, the man with whom Dodger speaks in the courthouse in this (Holman) is meant to be the same man from the movie, though I made his character more interesting. I gave him the name. Thanks for reading!


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